Still turning Collot’s revelations over in his mind, Sebastian emerged from the alley into the raucous turmoil of the street beyond. Someone was scraping on a fiddle, and half a dozen Irishmen were dancing a jig, cheered on by a circle of laughing, ragged women. Beyond them, he could see a lithe, pockmarked man wearing a small-brimmed, dented hat and standing by himself on the far side of the street. He had one shoulder propped against a rough brick wall, his hands thrust in his pockets, his gaze seemingly directed toward a saucy redheaded bit o’ muslin who was smiling at him. But when Sebastian turned south, toward Covent Garden, the man readjusted his hat and pushed away from the wall to follow him.
As he wound his way up the crowded street, Sebastian was aware of the pockmarked man behind him. The man hung well back, always careful to keep some distance between them. But when Sebastian paused to gaze through the misted window of a coffeehouse, his shadow paused too. The man had a lean, sharp-boned face with a small nose, a pointed chin, and dark hair. His clothes were those of a day laborer or apprentice. . . .
Or someone considerably more unsavory.
Whistling softly, Sebastian continued on.
The pockmarked man fell into step behind him.
As they neared Long Acre, the crowds became more scattered, the neighborhood less depraved. Sebastian quickened his pace, his footsteps and those of his shadow echoing dully in the narrow streets. He turned right onto Long Acre, then immediately drew back into the darkened doorway of a button shop. The pockmarked man rounded the corner and continued past Sebastian some three or four paces before becoming aware that his quarry had suddenly vanished. He abruptly drew up.
Sebastian stepped from the doorway into the light of a street lamp and said, “Who are you and why the hell are you following me?”
The man whirled. Rather than dissembling or startling in any way, he whipped a nasty knife from beneath his coat and lunged forward to slash the blade across Sebastian’s stomach with enough force to have disemboweled him if the steel had cut flesh. Instead, the knife ripped through the covering of the bolster Sebastian had used to pad his torso. A cascade of white feathers spilled around them, fluttering in an airy flurry to the wet pavement.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” For one unguarded moment, the man stared at him, confused.
“You son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian, his boot lashing out to smash into his assailant’s wrist.
The impact sent the knife careening into the darkness. Sebastian followed the kick with a jab of his right fist that caught the man high on the cheekbone and spun him half around. A second blow glanced across his ear and knocked the dented hat flying.
With an angry roar, the assailant lowered his head and charged, fists flailing. But the feathers were slick underfoot, the soles of his shoes slipping, throwing him off balance. Sebastian landed another punch against his assailant’s temple. The man broke and ran.
Leaping off the flagway into the street, he nearly collided with a hackney drawn by a skittish chestnut. The horse reared, neighing in alarm as the man dashed down the narrow lane that led to St. Paul’s and Covent Garden Market.
Sebastian pelted after him.
They erupted out of the lane into the broad market square, its stalls now shuttered in the darkness. During the day, the piazza before St. Paul’s was the site of London’s largest produce market. But at night, it was given over to the city’s demimonde. Painted women in low-cut gowns hissed and whistled as the two men pelted across the square, sliding awkwardly on the mushy cabbage leaves and smashed rotten fruit underfoot.
The man was lithe and agile and amazingly fleet-footed. Rather than gaining on him, Sebastian soon found himself having a hard time keeping up. They raced between rows of shuttered stalls, leapt over piles of refuge, and dodged sleepy, ragged little boys who crawled out from beneath the dark counters to holler at them. On the far side of the square, an aged landau pulled by a mismatched team of bays dashed past, its gray-bearded coachman clad in worn livery, its sole passenger a turbaned dowager either too financially pressed or too cheap to employ a footman to ride up behind her. With a running jump, Sebastian’s assailant leapt up to catch hold of the rear bar, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the platform.
“God damn it,” huffed Sebastian as the landau bowled on up the street, carrying its uninvited hanger-on away with it. The pockmarked man pivoted agilely, one hand still grasping the bar, the other raised to his forehead in a mocking salute.
Sebastian sprinted after the landau for another two blocks. Then the carriage turned onto the Strand, picking up speed as it rolled away toward the west.
He gave it up.
Hunching over, he braced his hands against his thighs, his body shuddering as he drew air into his aching lungs. A few last feathers fluttered down around him like the downy flakes of winter’s first snow.
“So who was he?” asked Hero, pausing in the doorway to Sebastian’s dressing room.